


Light Is No Mystery

by uwhatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John, from 1.03 to post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Is No Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> For Andrea.
> 
> This story is paired with a fanmix which can be downloaded [here](https://mega.co.nz/#!QgkGwTCK!EZTcHGaKyWKbr6LcrEP09ltPIQ9t362ejICR7N-xTGY). I decided to ignore canon in certain places (read: almost anything to do with ASiB and HotB), because it’s rather hard to tailor a storyline to fit a fanmix perfectly; I needed them to start kissing at a certain point and so it goes. My apologies.

**01\. Preparedness / The Bird and the Bee**

_are you prepared for the atom bomb?_  
 _are you prepared for my aching arms?_  
 _are you prepared?_  
…  
 _are you prepared for me?_

The tiles are slick with chlorinated water under Sherlock’s black leather shoes. His fingers are steady on John’s gun, but not for much longer – he can’t keep his muscles under control for much longer, that’s the problem with mixing adrenaline and forced calm.

This would be so much easier if John wasn’t here.

John knows he isn’t calm. John, who was saved only half a minute ago. John, who is sitting against the wall watching Sherlock stand there with his gun and both their lives in one hand. Sherlock wishes he could turn and look at him, meet his eyes and ask him for approval before eliminating the possibility of such an act forever through the simple encounter of a C4 jacket and a bullet going approximately one thousand feet per second. It seems an unfair assumption on Sherlock’s part, that John should be so willing to die—but then, he already proved that to be true not five minutes ago, so perhaps Sherlock should stop stalling and press the trigger.

This is why he never said anything, never did anything, two months or rather eight and a half weeks to be exact, and this moment of paralysis is precisely why he did not ever allow himself to grab John Watson by the collar and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

Would he even be able to hold the gun steady if he had?

All he can hear are the soft waves of pool water breaking against the tiled sides. That, and his own breathing, but the sounds are similar, uneven and unreliable. He can’t hear John, but then, John is ten feet away. Not much of a surprise there, really. What’s surprising is that the gun is still steady, sweat-slick against his palm. Nothing but complete calm as he tears John Watson apart with C4 and bright light and terrible, terrible speed.

His finger is just beginning to shake on the trigger when that stupid phone starts ringing.

**02\. Help I'm Alive / Metric**

_if we're still alive_  
 _my regrets are few_

John Watson cannot sleep. It is, under the circumstances, perhaps unsurprising. The mind rebels against something so mundane as pillows and duvets after having faced certain death mere hours before. Of course, his body is too exhausted to do anything but lie there while his mind keeps reliving the same half hour of his life until it all becomes one swirling fog of memory: a smile from Moriarty here, a flickering fluorescent light there, and the look, the look on Sherlock’s face as they stared at each other over the barrel of John’s own gun.

It’s hard to breathe, the blankets too heavy, too warm. His blood is still rushing through his veins, an uncontrollable reminder of his own reliance upon it and how fast it can leave through a body riddled with holes.

Eventually, after what must be hours of sweat-covered insomnia (he doesn’t dare look at the clock), John struggles out of bed and down the creaking stairs. It’s dangerous to walk barefoot in the kitchen, broken glass always a threat to the unwary, but John still has enough adrenaline coursing through him not to care. A small cut from a piece of glass means he’s still alive, after all. He could always do with the reminder, even with the pulse of blood through his ears obscuring the night’s silence.

He crosses to the living room windows, still taped over with brown paper. The cold night air sneaks its way around the edges, freezing on his damp skin. Pulling back a square, John looks out in the dark and silent street, breathing out and breathing in. Eventually, his pulse begins to slow.

He hears the door to Sherlock’s bedroom creak open and listens to the sound of soft footsteps following his own across the kitchen.

“John.”

He turns from the window to look at Sherlock, who leans against the doorframe with his hair in disarray, blue bathrobe slipping off one shoulder. Stretches of orange lamplight are splayed across his white skin like hands.

John reminds himself, standing in the cold night air with a shattered window behind him, that Sherlock Holmes is not interested—that Sherlock Holmes is married to his work and has no room in his life for sentiment. This is fine; or at least, it is acceptable. John understands. He’s dealing with it.

Thus John Watson replies with a quiet, “Sherlock,” and feels, with usual grim resignation, his renegade pulse begin to quicken.

**03\. The Stand / Mother Mother**

_i can hardly stand the sight [of it all]_  
 _i can hardly stand the sound [of it all]_  
 _i can hardly stand the taste [of it all]_  
 _i can hardly stand the smell [of it all]_

“John, turn that racket down.”

“It’s not ‘racket,’ it’s a program about the Hubble Space Telescope. Unless you’re doing something involving sound frequencies, I’m sure you can do your experiments just fine no matter what’s on the telly.”

“You have clearly increased the volume just to annoy me. It’s at 34, when usually you keep it between 18 and 22, except on days when you are particularly tired, when it can creep to 26.”

“Yeah, well, I must be _exhausted_ this evening, Sherlock, and besides, it’s hard to hear over you slamming crockery everywhere.”

Sherlock sighs, but proceeds in removing all the pots from the stove and all the dirty plates from the counter and dropping them unceremoniously into the kitchen sink. He needs the space, after all.

— _last mission in 2009, when the Space Shuttle_ Atlantis _with its crew of seven installed two new instruments, the Wide Field Camera 3 and the Cosmic Origins Spectograph, and also replaced two instruments which had failed, all over the course of five spacewalks. This mission was intended to keep the Hubble Space Telescope functioning until at least 2014, if not_ —

John has increased the volume another four units, even though Sherlock has stopped “slamming crockery,” and so Sherlock’s earlier assertion that the blasting television program regarding space was intended to annoy is clearly accurate. Unfortunately, him being right does not make the incessant drone of the program’s narration any less irritating.

John is frequently irritating these days. It took Sherlock twice as long as it should have that afternoon to figure out the new password on Lestrade’s email, all because John was sitting in the other chair typing up his latest blog entry, tapping away so slowly as to be agonizing and frowning at the screen in endearing concentration. Twenty-two pathetic minutes just to guess _810broadway_. Horribly distracting you are, John Watson.

Sherlock drops his scalpel onto the metal tray holding three left hands (each from a varying proficiency level of pianist) and strides to the kitchen doorway.

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 _The Hubble’s successor will be the James Webb Space Telescope, intended to be launched in the year 2018_ , the television is saying, and Sherlock cannot think around it and the flickering street lamp through the window and the television’s wavering blue glow, while John’s mouth is twitching towards a smile, just a bit, as if Sherlock’s inability to _think_ is somehow amusing, and why, why is John doing this to him.

“Might I ask why you think I need to share in your pointless television documentary?”

“Broaden your horizons, perhaps? Prepare you for outer space murder investigations?” John shrugs. “I hear it’s the final frontier.”

“That is ridiculous. There were only seven people on the Space Shuttle _Atlantis_ ; it would be child’s play to discern who was the murderer in such a small space and in such close quarters.”

“Ah, I see you’ve been listening. Interesting, isn’t it?” John says, with a smile that verges on smug.

Sherlock finds himself unable to think of a reply. Finally, he leans down, grabs the television cord and pulls it from the wall, cutting off the droning narration mid-syllable. John’s laughter follows him into the now supposedly undisturbed kitchen.

**04\. So You Say / The Bird and the Bee**

_you say you will not love me_  
 _you say you cannot bother me_  
 _so you say you'll never love me_  
 _so you say, so you say_  
 _so you say, so you say_

There is takeout on the kitchen table. Or rather, John sees as he checks the receipt and opens the cartons, there is takeout on the table from Thaiger Room in Southwark, which happens to be John’s favourite Thai restaurant in all of London, despite it being located on the opposite side of the Thames and having a rather stupid name.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?” Sherlock is busy texting and doesn’t even look up.

“I thought Thaiger Room didn’t deliver.”

“They don’t.”

John looks back at the stack of boxes and plastic containers—pad see ew, swimming rama, garden rolls, yellow curry, which are, now that he thinks about it, all his favourites—and considers their unexpected presence in their kitchen. It’d been a long day at the surgery, a rather nasty cold making its rounds at the moment combined with the computerized patient registry down all week for maintenance. It’d also started raining and John couldn’t find his Oyster card in his wallet or any of his pockets—maybe he’d left it in another coat?—so he’d walked home in a cotton jacket, thoroughly soaked and miserable. He’d barely acknowledged Sherlock, just muttered, “Bloody weather,” on his way upstairs to grab fresh clothes for after his shower, and now, lots of hot water and aggressive scrubbing later, there is Thai food on the kitchen table. As well as, John notices, his Oyster card, carefully propped against the containers of peanut and chili sauce.

John pokes his head back out into the living room.

“But Thaiger Room’s in Southwark.”

“Yes.”

“You—” John stops himself. Sherlock is still texting and still hasn’t looked up. Now that John looks more closely, he can see that Sherlock’s hair is somewhat damp. The rain is still pouring down past the windows, blurring the street lamps outside.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock finally looks up from his phone and smiles, pale skin and white teeth against his dark hair and suit jacket. It is nothing short of beautiful. For a moment, John contemplates crossing the living room, prying the phone from Sherlock’s hand, and kissing him until all the Thai food is cold and congealing and completely forgotten on the kitchen table.

Instead, John swallows and goes to get cutlery.

**05\. Love Me So / Remi Nicole**

_if i were not me, who would i be?_  
 _and would you still love me so?_  
 _and if you were not you, what would you do?_  
 _and would i still love you so?_

“Kicked out again, were we, Detective Inspector?”

“Sherlock—” John begins, but Lestrade beats him to it with an eye roll and a terse, “Shut up.”

Sherlock grins. It’s just showing off, but he can already see this murder investigation is hardly going to be worth his time, so he might as well have some fun where he can. Not that it’s a challenge to see that Lestrade spent the evening on a friend’s sofa – unfamiliar cat hairs on pant legs, wincing due to stiff back, compulsive fiddling with wedding ring – but John still deserves a good show. Considering Sherlock spent the morning discerning how much force was required to break open a can of beans with various household objects, as well as the splash patterns made once such an objective was achieved, it seems only fair to give John a decent evening out. The list of people who will spend their afternoon picking beans out of Sherlock’s hair is a list of one—hands soft and gentle while Sherlock sits perfectly still and watches the glowing outlines of windowpanes creep across the kitchen floor—and Sherlock is hardly ungrateful for it.

“You could _try_ to be nice once in a while, you know,” John is saying, but smiling even as he does.

“All I do is observe. I hardly see what’s so offensive about stating the obvious.”

“God, you’re a piece of work.” John glances at him and then turns away, staring at the crime scene instead.

Sherlock isn’t sure what to say in response. He wants to say, _Lestrade doesn’t mind, so why do you?_ Or alternatively, _How can you care so much about the overly sensitive feelings of every other person on the planet?_ Or perhaps, _If you’re supposed to be so nice, then how can you spend an afternoon running your fingers through my hair, breathing across my skin, when all I want to do is twist my hands into the weave of your stupid cream-colored jumper until I reach skin, because, dear god, John Watson, do you know how much I’d like to kiss you?_

But Sherlock doesn’t say any of these things, chooses instead to remind himself of the existence of C4 and sniper rifles while John stands silent and unaware beside him, until he hears Lestrade’s shout.

“Sherlock!”

The Detective Inspector is waving at them, summoning them to his side. Or rather, he is summoning Sherlock, and John, as John always does, follows.

**06\. Objects Of My Affection / Peter Bjorn and John**

_and the question is_  
 _was i more alive then than i am now?_  
 _i happily have to disagree_  
 _i laugh more often now_  
 _i cry more often now_  
 _i am more me_

“Sherlock, stop throwing the spoons in the— _give me that_ —sorry, Harry, what were you saying?”

“Domestic spat, John?”

“Ha bloody ha. What were you saying, something about the new girl at work—”

“Oh, Cecilia, right. God, I cannot fucking stand her, it’s like she’s never seen a computer in her life, she can’t even type, she has to hunt around for each goddamn key—”

“Well, so do I—”

“—yeah, and you can’t type either—”

“—I’ll have you know my blog—”

“—having a blog doesn’t mean you know how to _type_ , John, now let me finish my rant and then you can go back to keeping Sherlock from dumping yogurt in your shoes—”

“That’s not—”

“—or whatever you two do for secret flatmate love letters these days, but anyway, this girl Cecilia. So I was fishing my lunch out of the fridge, right, and I hear her behind me, blabbering on about some reality show from America, I mean, who even watches those who’s got half a brain—”

John listens to his sister tell him a meandering and unnecessarily convoluted story in order to prove that the new girl at her work is “so fucking annoying, John, I can’t even begin to tell you,” all while he runs damage control on Sherlock tearing apart their kitchen in the name of scientific discovery. So far as John can tell, this one is something to do with reflective concave surfaces. Still, he’s managed to pick up most of the cutlery, at least the knives, which, _why_ would Sherlock throw them on the floor in the first place, God, the bloody prat—

“John, are you there?”

“What, yeah, sorry, Harry, I just need a moment to— _Sherlock, we have five knives, not four, where is the fifth one, tell me now, I am not taking you to the hospital when you slice your foot open_ —sorry, Harry—”

“It’s fine, John, I can wait a minute.”

“Christ, thanks, I think he’s put the kettle in the loo, I don’t— _why the fuck is the carrot peeler in with the toothbrushes_ —stop laughing, Harry, I can’t find the kettle, I just bought it last week, and it was brand new after he thought testing the coagulation of blood at high temperatures would be a fantastic way to ruin the old one—”

“Oh, god, John did you really have to share that with me—”

“Well, _you_ try living with a bloody sociopath—”

“You certainly seem to be having fun.”

“What d’you mean, ‘having fun’? It’s a nightmare over here, Harry, Jesus Christ—”

“Well, it’s better than when I used to call you and if you _did_ pick up the phone, you never said a bloody word, god, it was awful. I know I was supposed to be sensitive to you in your trying times of re-entering civilian life, but Christ, John, you did not make it easy.”

“Oh, that’s real lovely of you, Harry, glad you could let me kn— _not the glass plates, Sherlock, those are Mrs. Hudson’s_ —”

“Honestly, John, you’re so goddamn sensitive. You’re doing great _now_ , obviously. Congratulations especially on your civilian successes of glass plate rescuing.”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Leave you to it, shall I? Give Sherlock a kiss from me.”

“Right, I’ll—wait, what?”

“You’ve got a life now, John. Enjoy it.”

“That’s not—”

“ _Goodbye_ , John.”

John turns, lowering the phone from his ear and drumming his fingers against the metal casing.

Sherlock is surveying the kitchen table, which is covered primarily with spoons and pot lids, although John can also see a ladle and a vegetable strainer. All the metal is glowing in the late afternoon sun, reflecting off Sherlock’s pale skin. It’s hard for John to look at, so he looks away instead.

“Harry says hello.”

“Hm. We have a second ladle, John, where is it?”

“You melted it two weeks ago.”

“Ah, yes. Unfortunate, had an interesting rate of slope increase, couldn’t have known I’d need it again, though, and this one’s handle was too short. John?”

John stops picking invisible lint from his sweater and looks up, only to find Sherlock is looking straight at him. The sunlight is caught in his hair now, dark brown tinted red and gold. It is, in a way, blinding.

“I need you to find me another ladle. It is a matter of extreme urgency, and future lives could be at stake.”

And now Sherlock watches with bafflement on his face as, in the glow of the warm afternoon light, John Watson begins to laugh.

**07\. Someday / The Strokes**

_you say you wanna stay by my side_  
 _darlin', your head's not right_  
 _see, alone we stand, together we fall apart_  
 _yeah, i think i'll be alright_  
 _i'm working so i won't have to try so hard_  
 _tables, they turn sometimes_  
 _oh, someday..._  
 _i ain't wasting no more time_

They are in an argument for the fourth time this week, and, as always, Sherlock cannot understand why. Usually he would have left the house by now, this argument being a waste of his time, when obviously he is right and John is wrong, although they are arguing about nothing important anyway, so _why doesn’t he just leave?_

“Milk is for drinking, Sherlock, not for experiments in bacteria formations, or poison dilutions or, or splash patterns—”

“What else am I to use? Milk is an easy to see opaque liquid of similar consistency to blood, it makes perfect sense—”

“No, it doesn’t, not when some of us like having milk in their tea, you idiot, and every bloody morning, there is none left, despite my having done the shopping the evening before, just like always—”

“That’s—”

“—absolutely true, don’t pretend otherwise, because you can never be fucking bothered to lower yourself to the level of us mere mortals and, say, do your fair share of the chores. God, everyone said I’d go crazy living with you, obviously they were right—”

Sherlock slams his laptop shut and stands, cutting John off with the sudden change in heights. “I told you at the start I was difficult to live with, don’t pretend you didn’t know—”

John laughs incredulously. “ ‘Difficult,’ Sherlock? Bloody impossible, I think you mean. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t handle all—all—” a frantic wave at Sherlock’s entire person “—this!”

“ ‘This’?” Sherlock repeats, complete with sarcastic air quotes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do use your words, John, you’re supposed to be a writer, after all.”

“I—you, Sherlock! You bloody well being you, you complete—how can you not understand that other people beside you exist?! That they also want things? Need things? You’re not the only one living in this flat, Sherlock, and I’m not—I’m not just here for when you need me to go out shopping or to boost your already massive ego. I’m a fucking person, for Christ’s sake.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _Obviously_ you’re a person, John, I think I would’ve noticed by now if you were a, a _giraffe_ —”

“Christ, Sherlock, how can you not understand?!” John interrupts, rubbing a hand violently across his face. “You’re supposed to be a bloody genius, how can you not understand?”

But of course Sherlock can’t understand when John won’t just explain what the problem is instead of prattling on about stupid chores that obviously have nothing to do with it, so he says at last, in utter frustration, “Well, if you’re so _bothered_ by all of it, why don’t you just leave? Go get a proper flatmate who respects milk’s overwhelming sanctity and has the time to waste on shopping at Tesco!”

John breathes in sharply. Then Sherlock watches as, instead of continuing their yelling match to its usual conclusion of mutual eye rolling, John merely shakes his head and spins on his heel to leave through the kitchen. Sherlock stands in silent shock for all of three panicked exhales before running after him, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug. He manages to catch up with John halfway up the stairs, grabs him by the shoulder and spins him back around so that they are once more face to face.

“John, I didn't—”

“What are you—”

“—didn’t mean that, don’t—don’t—”

“Sherlock, I’m not—”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the milk. Just don’t—leave.”

Sherlock can hardly breathe, and John is staring at him from two steps above, so that Sherlock has to tilt his head up to look at him. It is surprisingly disorientating.

“Sherlock,” John says, and then stops. The light at the top of the stairs is caught in his hair, and Sherlock would do anything to reach out and touch him.

Breaking waves of pool water echo in his mind, in time with his own ragged breathing.

So instead of lifting his shaking hand from the wooden balustrade, Sherlock simply says, “Don’t leave me.” Then he lets himself pretend it is now beyond his control when John leans down and—finally, oh god, finally—kisses him.

**08\. Give Him A Great Big Kiss / The Shangri-Las**

_[well, what color are his eyes?]_  
 _i don't know, he's always wearing shades_  
 _[is he tall?]_  
 _well, i've gotta look up_  
 _[yeah? well, i hear he's bad]_  
 _mm, he's good-bad, but he's not evil_  
 _[tell me more, tell me more]_

There’s another string of emails from blog readers in his inbox, just like every morning, and John sighs as he begins to work his way through answering them all.

_Hello! My name is Ann, and I started reading your blog a few days ago. I went through all the entries in one (really long) night! I was just wondering – are you and Sherlock dating? I know you say you aren’t at the start, but I thought maybe things had changed…? – Ann_

“Sherlock.”

“What?” Sherlock replies from the bedroom, where he is doubtless still cocooned in the duvet, always the late riser when no case is on.

“My readers are far too convinced that we’re shagging.”

John can hear Sherlock laugh, and then—“Well, you’re not a very good liar.”

John smiles.

Ten minutes of slowly tapping out a response later ( _D-e-a-r A-n-n-, T-h-a-n-k y-o-u f-o-r y-o-u-r e-m-a-i-l…_ ), John starts on the next one. He can hear movement from the bedroom, and guesses that Sherlock has finally gathered the courage to face the day.

_ur blog is awesom but sherlock is a dick._

John glances up to see Sherlock stumbling to the bathroom, somehow avoiding the walls and furniture even as he rubs both eyes with the focused purpose of a five-year-old. His dark hair is, as always in the mornings, all over the place – although today even more so than usual, since John spent a significant part of the morning running his fingers through it.

John looks back down at the computer screen and skips to the next message.

_John – Love the blog! I check every day for an update – it’s the highlight of my day if there is one! I was just wondering, is it hard living with someone as crazy as Sherlock? You seem pretty okay with it on your blog, but how can you handle someone who sounds completely unpredictable? I’d go crazy! <3 Kathy_

“Another one asking how I can possibly manage to live with you,” John says as Sherlock walks into the living room, still in pyjamas but rather more awake.

“Your readers show an appalling lack of collective imagination,” Sherlock says, and leans down to kiss him. He tastes like mint toothpaste, and it is wonderful.

**09\. When My Boy Walks Down The Street / The Magnetic Fields**

_the world does the hula-hula when my boy walks down the street_  
 _everyone thinks he's petula, so big and yet so petite_  
 _butterflies turn into people when my boy walks down the street_  
 _maybe he should be illegal, he just makes life too complete_

“You can’t kill someone with a non-poisoned fruitcake, John. The suggestion that fruitcake would be hard enough to bash someone’s head in is simply ridiculous.”

Sherlock and John are walking to pick up their curries at Sanjay’s, and the holiday decorations are out in full force: giant snowflakes in shop windows, fairy lights on streetlamps and trash bins. In a stab at holiday spirit, they are discussing Christmas-specific foods and their capacity for murder sans poison. Candy canes rate quite highly if shoved through the eye socket, although Christmas biscuits are unanimously unthreatening. Fruit cake, however, is causing a fair bit of debate.

“It’s a cultural myth, Sherlock, just—not everything actually has to make sense. Besides, you _could_ still kill someone with non-poisoned fruitcake if they choked to death on a piece, which is definitely _not_ impossible, even by your rules.”

“Hardly a reliable method of homicide, isn’t it? Although I suppose it _would_ be hard to prove in court—”

“All the better reason to use it as a murder weapon.”

“Then Christmas biscuits would work just as well, John.”

John considers this, lips pursed in serious contemplation. At last, he replies, “The consistency is different. Biscuits are still less dangerous.”

“Fine.” Sherlock checks his phone for the next item on the list. “Peanut brittle.”

“Ah, easy – ‘accidental’ allergic reaction. That one’s got to be rather good, don’t you think?”

Sherlock glances over at John, who is beaming, his smile lit by tacky shop window displays and virulent patches of fairy lights.

“… yes,” Sherlock says. “Fantastic.”

**10\. Momentary Sanctuary / Official Secrets Act**

_i am lost, i am found_  
 _there’s no need for a sound_  
 _safe and sound, safe and sound_  
 _safe and sound in the sound_

It is raining, and it is horrible. John’s nylon windbreaker got soaked through an hour ago and the wind is howling, grey storm light making midday look like early evening. Even better, they’re tromping along the pebbled banks of the Thames, another hour left before the rising tide forces them to climb back up and, please, God, get out of this downpour.

Lestrade is lagging behind them, shouting on his mobile to Sergeant Donovan, who had the sense to stay indoors. John is doing his best to keep moving, keep blood flowing to his long-numb extremities, and so that means keeping pace with Sherlock, even if a certain amount of intermittent jogging is required.

“Just what do you think we’re going to find out here, then?” John says on the verge of shouting.

“I told you, John,” Sherlock replies, crisp consonants cutting through the wind’s howl. “Evidence.”

John sighs and wipes the rain out of his eyes, blinking at the brown and seething river, just two feet from their rain-soaked shoes. “If we die,” John says, “because you’d rather drown in a rising tide than leave your precious evidence—”

“We’re not going to drown, I’ll find it long before then—”

“Or if we get hypothermia—”

“Dry clothes, hot meal, and we’ll be fine. Honestly, John, you call yourself a doctor—”

John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s arm, pulling them face to face.

“I can’t feel my fingers, Sherlock! Or, I’m pretty sure, most of my arms and legs.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, dark brown hair plastered flat against his forehead. “Neither can I, what’s your point?”

John stares. He is cold and wet and tired and annoyed and once more has to remind himself that these things mean absolutely nothing to Sherlock Holmes when it comes to solving the latest puzzle.

“We are going home, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“We are both soaking wet, it’s January, we’ve been looking for over two hours now. _We are going home._ ”

“I said, no,” Sherlock replies, and, in a rather unexpected move, leans down and kisses him. Despite most of John’s face being numb, it manages to be the kind of nice that leaves John uncaring of the howling wind and sideways rain and also the fact that they agreed they were going to keep this private, at least for a little while, and here they are standing on the bank of the Thames, their eyes closed and Sherlock’s supposedly numb fingers tangled in his soaking hair.

It lasts until Lestrade says from behind them, “Sherlock, you promised me evidence for a murder case, not evidence that you two really are shagging.”

John startles and stumbles back immediately, but the look on Lestrade’s face is decidedly unsurprised. Sherlock, however, rather more composedly, coughs, straightens his sodden jacket, and then says, “Yes, Detective Inspector, I did. Let’s carry on, shall we?”

**11\. A White Demon Love Song / The Killers**

_let us be in love_  
 _let's do old and grey_  
 _i won't make you cry_  
 _i will never stray_  
 _i will do my part_  
 _let us be in love tonight_

It is late Thursday evening, two days after returning from Dartmoor. They are sitting on the couch, John with the newspaper and a mug of tea while Sherlock sits curled into his side, sending increasingly insulting texts to Mycroft, who stopped responding seven minutes ago but is almost certainly still reading them. Sherlock can feel the loose knit of John’s jumper against his neck and smell the cheap ink from the rustling pages. It is all very pleasant and normal, and so it is with mild horror that Sherlock announces, “This is disgustingly domestic.”

“Hmm. That’s nice,” John says, and flips to another page.

Sherlock drops his phone on the coffee table and waves a hand in front of the paper, frowning. “No, it is not _nice_ , it is horrible, John, do you not realize this?”

John sighs. “What, exactly, is so horrible about us having a night in, Sherlock?”

“Because it’s false security!” Sherlock waves his hands violently through the air. “Constructed peace in a world of chaos, a momentary lie!”

John looks down at him and frowns. “God, you’re dismal tonight. I thought Dartmoor would last you at least a little while longer. Should I start looking for new cases?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John’s lack of comprehension is nothing new and, he must admit, understandable in this instance. John didn’t see what Sherlock saw – the blue-lit reminder that they have been waiting all this time for the next round to start, laughing at Sherlock for ever having forgotten that John’s warm skin under his hands is not permanent.

“Well, there should be an Agatha Christie on tonight,” John says after Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Want to watch the first five minutes, yell the solution at the television screen, and then fool around until they prove you right?”

Sherlock considers what Moriarty would think of him spending his evening in combat with mass-produced mystery programs. The answer, of course, is “abject dismay and horror.”

So it is with a bit of a “fuck you” attitude toward the spectre hovering at the back of his mind that Sherlock can bring himself to enjoy finding out he’s beaten Poirot for the sixth time that month, all while John laughs and kisses him “in congratulations of your incredible victory, well done” and undoes the last of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.

**12\. Cosmic Love / Florence + the Machine**

_i took the stars from my eyes, and then i made a map_  
 _and knew that somehow i could find my way back_  
 _then i heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too_  
 _so i stayed in the darkness with you_

They’re standing at the pool and Moriarty is laughing. John is doused in gasoline, dripping onto the tile, and Sherlock is holding the match.

“He’s back,” John says, obvious as always, simple and slow. It’s his fault, the gasoline. It had been so warm and perfect, sliding over his skin. He feels a bit stupid now, really.

“No,” Sherlock says, and the match is burning, turning the wood black bit by bit. “He never left.” Sherlock’s eyes are staring into John’s, unmoving, and the flame is getting closer and closer to his fingertips until John sees the skin blistering, smells burnt flesh, and still Sherlock holds John’s death in his hand and doesn’t look away. The fire crawls across his skin, reaches his coat sleeve, spreads from his arm to his chest, and as the flames begin to pull at his face, melting the skin and exposing the white bones beneath, Sherlock mouth begins to move, the same shape, the same word, over and over, his eyes still fixed on John’s face. But John can’t hear over the sound of Moriarty laughing, until finally, at last, Sherlock begins to scream.

John wakes in the darkened bedroom, yellow streetlamp light leaking through the blinds. Sherlock is not there—Moriarty was just acquitted that afternoon, after all. Still, knowing why Sherlock isn’t there doesn’t make it any less disconcerting that he’s not, so John stumbles out of bed and into the kitchen, wincing against the sudden influx of light. He makes his way to the living room, somehow managing to avoid bumping into any furniture.

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, still in his dress shirt from the trial, his laptop open on the coffee table and phone in hand. Who he’s texting at this hour, John does not want to know.

“Hello,” Sherlock says, after a brief glance upward.

“You should sleep,” John says.

“Sleep is boring,” Sherlock replies, and grimaces at whatever’s just appeared on his laptop screen.

“Sleep is healthy.”

“Health is boring.”

John sighs. “You should at least try, Sherlock.”

“I believe you have been trying, and yet here you are in the living room at… very nearly four in the morning. A sincere effort, was it?”

“Yes. Well.”

Sherlock stops typing, and looks up. There’s a quiet pause.

“The couch is quite comfortable, John,” Sherlock says at last. “I highly recommend it.”

John considers this for a moment, and then decides that he probably won’t be getting any more sleep lying in the dark of their empty bedroom. So he asks, “I’ll make the tea then, shall I?” and watches as Sherlock smiles in response, as if to reassure him that this is normal, nightmares and insomnia, that they are both fine and will stay that way, forever. It is not, however, terribly convincing.

**13\. Boats and Birds / Gregory and the Hawk**

_but you can sky-rocket away from me_  
 _and never come back if you find another galaxy_  
 _far from here with more room to fly_  
 _just leave me your stardust to remember you by_

The lab is unbearably quiet after John leaves. Sherlock sits in the hum of the air ducts and impossibly bright overhead lighting, every controlled breath incredibly loud to his ears. He estimates he has ten minutes or so of waiting left to do. So far it is, simultaneously, both the longest and the shortest ten minutes of his entire life.

John will hate him for this—not for what he’s about to do, but for not telling him first. Sherlock knows that John wouldn’t think twice about following him up to the roof, and that is precisely why Sherlock had to send him away. This is no time to have his finger shaking on the trigger.

Mycroft did try to warn him, he supposes—a cigarette and a pat set of cautionary words. But then, Mycroft bloody well _would_ be right, wouldn’t he. Insufferable git.

Sherlock lets the rubber ball bounce against the table top, then pins it in place with caged fingers.

It would’ve been nice to say goodbye, he thinks, but it’s easier this way—just him and Moriarty. The finger on the trigger will be calm and certain, unhesitant in the execution of the best and only solution to a rational problem.

And John Watson will not be in firing range.

**14\. Alpha Shallows / Laura Marling**

_you'll work your thumbs till they're sore_  
 _and you'll work my heart till it's raw_  
 _and you'll call and you'll call but you'll never be told_  
 _and i'll fall and i'll fall and i'll fall_

The fluorescent lights are so bright in this room, and the doctor is talking, she’s handing him a piece of printed paper, so he folds it and puts it in his pocket, like it’s something important, because doctors like to think the things they say are important, that the things they say save lives.

The concussion makes it hard to keep it all straight, to hold onto everything at once.

He gets out of the hospital somehow, ends up standing on the pavement alone, the sky going dark overhead. He thinks he should call Lestrade, maybe, or Mrs Hudson, but he looks down at the phone in his hand and next thing he knows he’s sitting on the kerb, staring at the glowing screen of recent calls and the name right at the top of them. It occurs to him that someday that name will disappear from the list entirely, and he can’t bring himself to make the first call that will begin its erasure. So he sits, silent and mildly concussed, unable to think past Sherlock’s blood-covered face as the cloud-covered sky turns black above him and the mobile screen dims in his hand.

It’s not much of a surprise when a black car pulls up and Anthea opens the door. The drive to Baker Street is silent apart from the sound of her mobile’s clicking keys.

It’s odd, John thinks, for Mycroft to have remembered him in the wake of his brother jumping off a building. To have helped him return home to an empty flat. But then, Mycroft never has been the most emotional of people.

Sherlock was, John thinks as he collapses to the carpet on the living room floor and begins to sob at last, shaking and unable to breathe. Sherlock shouted and laughed and loved like burning—all-consuming star of John Watson’s solar system. Bright-shining supernova, on the edge of dying—taking everything else with him in the process.

**15\. Amazon Love / Johnny Flynn**

_gonna sweep this house clean out_  
 _gonna blow out all of the lights_  
 _we'll dream back up the amazon_  
 _we'll steer her home tonight_  
 _we'll steer her home tonight_

Sherlock is sitting in Molly Hooper’s bathtub, deducing her shampoo bottles. Molly is out in the kitchen, making dinner for two, despite the fact that Sherlock will not be eating and said as much. He estimates that he has been in the bathroom for approximately half an hour now, listening to the muffled sounds of pots and pans and finding out that Molly Hooper uses cheap TRESemmé shampoo and conditioner, but strawberry shower gel from The Body Shop. The worn curve of Dove soap by Sherlock’s shoulder suggests the shower gel was a Christmas gift, and Sherlock wonders if she uses it because she likes the smell of strawberries or because she feels obligation to the gift giver to use what was clearly an expensive present. Sherlock is leaning toward the later, especially considering the lavender hand soap by the sink, which would suggest she prefers more floral scents in her cleansers.

Half an hour of shampoo and soap and the cold hard curve of the bathtub pressing against Sherlock’s shoulder blades. It is to Molly’s credit that she has refrained from knocking on the door, but has instead let him leave her to the warmth and bustle of her own familiar kitchen while he stares at the slowly dripping faucet that splashes water onto the dark leather of his shoes.

Sherlock is trying not to think and finding it very difficult.

The overhead light flickers about once a minute, prompting the question of why Molly hasn’t fixed it. Not enough time? Unlikely. Forgetful? More probable. Lives alone, can put up with it herself, sees no reason to put effort into finding a reliable light source. This one will do, until it breaks entirely, and then she’ll be left in complete darkness. (There is no bathroom window in this small apartment.) But then, he supposes, Molly will manage. She manages to deal with many things, quietly and calmly, such as inconsolable consulting detectives sitting in her bathtub.

“Sherlock? Can I come in?” says Molly from the other side of the door. Sherlock supposes that at least she will distract him better than shampoo and light fixtures, so he says, “Yes.”

Molly manages to turn the doorknob despite holding two gigantic bowls of what appears to be vegetarian stir-fry over brown rice. Healthy, filling, and also kind to animals. If Molly is surprised to see Sherlock sitting in her bath, she doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, and takes up residence on the toilet seat.

“I have forks and chopsticks, I didn’t know which you prefer—”

“Not eating.”

“You really should.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Well, if you don’t eat, I won’t either.”

“And I should mind?”

“Yes, because—because…” And here Molly stops, thinking hard, until she says, “Because I’ll take Napoleon and rub him all over your very big, very expensive coat if you don’t.”

Sherlock considers this. “... is Napoleon the one with all the hair?”

“The fluffy one, yes. And also very _white_.”

“Hm. Good threat,” Sherlock says, and Molly gives him a nervous smile until he continues, “Unfortunately, I won’t be wearing that coat anytime soon, so you can do with it what you like.”

Molly is looking properly concerned now, much like another cat that’d stared at Sherlock from the countertop when he arrived, all big eyes and hunched shoulders.

“You have to eat, Sherlock. You have to take care of yourself. You’re a—a person, not a machine—”

“Stop—”

“—and you don’t have John anymore to—”

“Please, just—stop,” Sherlock says, eyes closed and hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“…sorry,” Molly says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—sorry.” A minute of slow silence passes, and then she says, “Do you want me to leave? I can—I’m sorry, I can leave, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Who gave you the strawberry shower gel?” Sherlock interrupts before she can get to her feet. Mysteries and puzzles, always good distractons.

“What?”

“The shower gel. Who gave it to you?”

“I—Christmas, it was—from the both of you, that’s what it said on the card.”

“… ah.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Stop apologising,” Sherlock says, and opens his eyes, blinking more than he should be. It fits—well-intentioned, well-meaning, and Sherlock Holmes’ saving grace. “It should’ve been lavender, shouldn’t it. Rose. Something floral.”

Molly stares at him over the bowls of still-steaming stir-fry. “It’s… fine. I like strawberries, they’re fine. It was a nice present. You gave me chocolate, too, the real expensive kind, and a new lab coat.”

“Did we?” Sherlock says, and it’s getting hard to talk, hard to swallow. “That was nice of us.”

“Yes,” Molly says. “It was. Do you want—I can leave—”

“No, don’t,” Sherlock says, and it comes out panicked and horrible. He takes a deep breath. “Talk to me, I don’t—why is your cat named Napoleon? People like talking about their pets, you should like talking about your cats, tell me about them and eat your stir-fry while I sit here in your bath.”

Molly is quiet for a moment, and then places a bowl with its fork and chopsticks next to Sherlock’s elbow.

“Alright,” she says, “but no making fun of me.”

Sherlock tries his best at a smile. “No fun, Molly Hooper, shall be had,” he says, and closes his eyes against the flickering light bulb, letting the mundane details of Molly Hooper’s life fill the darkness instead.

**16\. These Days / Nico**

_i've been out walking_  
 _i don't do too much talking_  
 _these days, these days_  
 _these days i seem to think a lot_  
 _about the things that i forgot to do_  
 _and all the times i had the chance to_

John is walking in the park because he cannot stay in the flat and walking in the park was something the two of them never did, and so it is safe for that reason. 

He knows he should probably be resting, considering he got a concussion only yesterday, mild though it may be. But this qualifies, doesn’t it? Walking in the park, that’s hardly strenuous activity. It’s not as if he’s going to stay in the flat lying on the couch all day. Not on that couch, at least.

Except somehow even the things he never did with Sherlock now remind him of Sherlock, because all he can remember as he walks, one foot after the other, bikers and joggers swerving around him, is Sherlock’s absolute unwillingness to experience nature except in the cause of an interesting murder. Dartmoor sans impossible psychological puzzle would’ve been horrifying to Sherlock’s urban brain.

But the two of them never went to the park, because there was never a reason to. One day there is going to be a public park serial killer who leaves all his victims hidden in the shrubbery to be found by small children and joggers, but John will still never know what Sherlock looks like in standing a park because Sherlock is dead and so can’t investigate a serial killer, public park or otherwise.

John sits down on the very next bench, closes his eyes, and does his best not to cry.

**17\. Jodi / The Dodos**

_jodi, my dear, i'm sorry but i must disappear_  
 _i leave you with a song and a tear_  
 _just please don't wash away_  
…  
 _and though you are far, i keep you in a place in my heart_  
 _and never let the beast tear apart_  
 _what happened there in may_

The bus is heading north to Leeds and Sherlock has leaned his head against the fogged over window, dirty-blonde hair going damp as the glass numbs his skin. The frayed sweatshirt Molly brought him from the charity shop is too thin and the cuffs barely reach his wrists.

He has both seats to himself, only four other passengers tracing the M1 with him. Himself and the driver make six. They are, all of them, silent.

The rain outside and the fog on the glass make it difficult to see out, but Sherlock can identify the blurred outlines of the cars going past them, colours muted and drivers indecipherable.

He stayed in London just long enough to see John in the graveyard, and even that long was an unacceptable risk taken out of condemning sentiment. It would have been better if he hadn’t gone, if he’d left London immediately. John Watson had been within shouting distance, and Sherlock Holmes had stood there, silently breaking apart, piece by painful piece.

Which is a foolish way to think, as here Sherlock is, still whole and healthy, heading north to Leeds at approximately seventy miles per hour. He is breathing and he is alive; the same is true of Dr John H. Watson. Thus, Sherlock will remain breathing and alive, until every single one of Moriarty’s men is dead and buried and no one remains to care if Sherlock spends the entire day in bed with said John H. Watson—kissing, fucking, talking, fighting—as the sunlight turns from grey to yellow, gold to red, until night falls and John’s face is lit by orange streetlamps and blue-white mobile screens that they never have to answer.

For now, Sherlock swings his feet up onto the seat beside him, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

**18\. Waiting For A War / The Morning Benders**

_i'm getting tired of living like i'm dying_  
 _while the world is moving on_

John had thought that the first day would be the worst one. Stepping around the chemistry texts scattered across his bedroom floor. Finding that the stray sock in his hand does not belong to him. Replacing a mug to the cupboard after realizing he’d taken down two. That’d been why he’d gone to the park, after all—an escape, if not a very effective one.

But the second day is just as bad. Perhaps worse. Wondering what to do with the shampoo in the shower that isn’t his. Unplugging the laptop so he can now finally stop tripping over the cord. Replacing a mug to the cupboard after realizing he’s taken down two.

On the third day, he decides to go stay with Harry for a bit, at least for a week or so, so on the fourth day, he wakes up in the wrong bed, in a room with the wrong wallpaper – an oppressively modern pattern made out of geometric shapes. The jam in the cupboard is the wrong kind of jam, but he finishes the toast anyway, because Harry would be worried if he didn’t.

He spends three days at Harry’s until he can’t take it anymore. The day after the visit with Mrs Hudson, he goes back to Baker Street.

On the seventh day, on the seventh morning, he gets up, boils water in the electric kettle, and takes down two mugs. Then he realizes what he’s done, and puts one of them back. He wonders how long it’ll be before he begins to only take down one, and then can’t decide if he wishes it were tomorrow or a day that will never come.

**19\. Six Weeks / Of Monsters And Men**

_alone, i fight these animals_  
 _alone, until i get home_  
…  
 _coming back, i'm coming back_  
 _coming back, i'm coming back_

Sherlock writes down another name and tapes it to the giant freezer doors that are serving as his pin board. He can keep it all in his head easy enough, but this is no time to let mistakes creep in.

He’s sitting on a pile of worn couch cushions and old blankets on the floor of a disused Chinese restaurant, closed for health code violations six months prior and unlikely to be reopened anytime soon. He can use the unsecured Wi-Fi of the couple next door on a laptop he purchased upon his arrival in Manchester. A stack of today’s newspapers sit by his side, and there are mice scurrying along the baseboard trim. No electricity, so Sherlock purchased an extra laptop battery and charges them both with a trip to various coffee shops around the city every morning. A shower in the back with cold water and mould on the ceiling.

The list of names is getting longer, one scrap of paper after another creeping across the empty fridge. Newspaper articles decorate the cabinets, each door a different criminal category—homicide, theft, blackmail—filled with carefully cut columns.

The first papers after he arrived were still full of pictures of him in the first few pages, sprawling articles about Richard Brook and what a tragedy it all was. It took him seventeen different newspapers and two days to find the picture now folded carefully inside the fake leather wallet he picked up at a charity shop down the road. The paper’s already turning brown at the edges, too cheap to last very long; for the sake of conservation, Sherlock only allows himself to unfold it once a day, lighting up John’s fading face with LED flashlight bulbs, dark newsprint rubbing off on his fingertips.

 _Sentiment_ , Sherlock thinks as he holds John’s face in his cold hands. (There are never enough blankets to make up for the lack of heating.) Mycroft would laugh at him, but then, that’s why Mycroft isn’t the one holed up in a failed Chinese restaurant on the fringe of a northern city. It was Sherlock’s choice, and he made it. His brother will have his mansions and hot food and reliable internet. Sherlock will have John Watson, no matter how long it takes. No matter how many times the Earth must travel round the Sun.

**20\. Woke Up New / The Mountain Goats**

_and i sang_  
 _oh, what do i do? what do i do? what do i do?_  
 _what do i do without you?_

John wakes from the ghosts of fingers, cold and shining like starlight, in his hair and on his skin. He keeps his eyes shut, obscuring the divide between fading dream and silent bedroom for as long as possible. The night is heavy, pressing down on him with its suffocating quiet.

Waking up is the hardest. Every night, he forgets, and every morning he has to remind himself: the emptiness to his right is not the result of early rising or insomnia.

One morning he could hear porcelain and glass being shifted in the kitchen. The dream had lasted all the way down the stairs and around the corner before he saw Mrs Hudson putting shopping in the fridge.

He knows the difference between the two, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t rather stay here, eyes shut against the rest of the still-turning world and the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his head like a whisper just on the edge of hearing. Sometimes, he can even fall back asleep, the dark behind his eyelids turning to bright Technicolor, but it’s harder to do in the mornings, when the dawn light’s already made its way through the blinds.

It’s just stasis, he knows. Mrs Hudson is worried about him. Lestrade has called a few times to ask how he’s doing, but John doesn’t know what to say.

He wakes up to an empty flat, goes to work at the clinic, and then comes home, where he spends his nights curled in sheets that still smell faintly of Sherlock’s skin, Sherlock’s hair. Even he knows that’s hardly healthy behaviour.

If he were to be honest with himself, he would admit that he needs to leave Baker Street. It is, really, the only thing he _can_ do—that, or lie here forever, face pressed deep into Sherlock’s pillow like a child who’s afraid of the dark.

In the morning, perhaps. In the morning he will wake up and do a search online first thing. And that first week, Harry had told him she could help, if he wanted. Maybe he’ll give her a call. Perhaps even the classifieds would have something; he’ll have to check.

It’ll be good for him to leave. It’s the only thing to do, really—moving on in carefully labelled cardboard boxes with an excess of packing tape. First thing in the morning, that’s when he’ll start.

But for now, he lies with his eyes shut, pretending the sound of his breathing is the sound of Sherlock’s own, waiting for starlit dreams to retake him.


End file.
